34. Rock Yard Skirmish

34 – Rock Yard Skirmish

Despite his best efforts, Hector couldn’t lay eyes on any of the other mercs—assuming that was who he saw slinking over the shadowy hillside. Of course, he was inside the awning, lying mostly behind a pile of stones, so he had some blind spots. There was a good chance there was at least one other merc coming from behind the awning’s closed-off angles. That meant they’d come around the corners, so he kept his eyes unfocused, scanning generally for any movement.

Britt would have a better view, facing him and the awning from her foxhole. He hoped she was smart enough not to shoot first, though—give him a chance to take their attention and fire up the jammer. He held the shotgun down by his side, not wanting the barrel to trigger a drone’s pattern recognition. They’d have a drone up, especially if they were as well-equipped as Britt said they were.

As he thought about their equipment, he idly wondered about the tablet in his backpack. Evie must not have found anything yet, or she would’ve—

//Nothing. When I paired, it triggered a mem-wipe daemon. I’m sorry.//

Hector wasn’t upset; he’d expected nothing, so disappointment didn’t register.

Refocusing on the shadowy figure, he watched it approach the fence. Would he climb or cut? Hector watched, though he expected the other mercs to do something to distract—or so he’d thought. The figure didn’t slow at the fence. He glided over the stony ground, and when he reached the fence, he practically took flight, flitting noiselessly over the seven-foot chain-link. He landed on the rocky ground, crouching, his eyes gleaming crimson in the depths of his shadowy face.

Hector narrowed his eyes, squinting. He hadn’t seen an aura, so what was it? Augs? The merc moved like a cat. He had to be wearing some kind of cloaking gear, too; the shadows clinging to him were too deep. The way his eyes glowed was reminiscent of an aura boost, but his whole body would be flickering, lit up like neon in the shadows. No, they had to be implants reading heat—

A click sounded in the darkness, and the stone near Hector’s face shifted as a bullet zwinged off it, careening into the plasteel awning with a resounding clang. Hector immediately slid down the back of the rock pile as more clicks sounded and more bullets ripped through the darkness, subsonic, but plenty loud when they hit stones and plasteel.

So he saw me. He’s good.

Hector padded along the plasteel wall toward another pile of stone, moving around it while he kept his focus on his ears, listening for the smallest crunch of gravel. Something sounded behind him, on the other side of the plasteel. Without hesitation, Hector spun and fired from the hip, blasting ten eight-millimeter holes in the material. Somebody grunted, and Hector followed the sound with two more shots. The echoing booms ruled out any further chance of using his ears to aim, so he turned and ran, sure he’d given away his position to the shadowy stalker.

Hector was nimble and well-practiced in the art of stalking; he leaped from stone to stone on one of the larger rock piles. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d always intended to use the rocks that way, but it wasn’t until he did it that he became cognizant of the tactic. When he rounded the pile, he saw Britt’s little car to his left and the shadow creeping toward the side of the awning he’d already shot.

Jammer now, Evie.

As a high-pitched sound erupted in his ears, the shadow paused, turning his gaze toward the sky—some sort of tell? Was he looking toward his drone? Hector pointed the shotgun and fired. The shadow proved his skill once again; even as the shotgun roared, he dove and rolled. Maybe he had some precog in his blood. People said things like that about Hector, but he thought it was just experience and instinct. Whatever the case, the shot missed, but Hector was already following up with another. There was only so much rolling a man could do, and buckshot was damn hard to dodge.

The shot caught the shadow on the legs, and he grunted, leaping into a forward slide to put a rock pile between himself and Hector. Something clicked, and Hector dove, but not before a small-caliber bullet slammed into his right hip. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the shooter was a third merc. Is that all of them?

Hector crawled around a rock pile, sliding behind the stony cover as he reached into his coat pocket for a handful of shells. While he knelt there, he hastily fed them into the shotgun’s magazine, still listening for footfalls. His hip throbbed, and he felt hot blood soaking his pants, but he tuned it out—acknowledged but ignored. Four shells loaded, he jumped up and moved, just as more steps sounded behind him—the shadow.

By then, he’d run along most of the back wall of the awning, so he beelined for the corner and slid on the gravel just as more clicks sounded and the plasteel rang with the impacts. He scrambled for the closest rock pile, got behind it, and then slammed one more round into the gun’s mag. That done, he crouched, waiting and listening.

He heard steps straight ahead, maybe ten meters. Hector held still. When he heard the faintest scuff of sound to his right, he lifted the shotgun and, crouched-low and backpedaling, he fired a steady barrage of blasts toward the sound, scanning for targets as he gently squeezed the trigger, angling toward the open air beyond the awning.

He didn’t hit anything, but he kept them down, kept them ducked behind their cover. When he reached the corner of the plasteel and had nothing but the open gravel lot ahead, he broke into a sprint, aiming for one of the distant, weed-covered rock-piles. His injured leg hitched, and his steps were less than graceful, but he was still quick. “Now, Britt,” he hissed, hoping she’d see the opening.

As he sprinted, devouring the ground, wishing he’d selected a Speed Boost instead of Strength, he felt the nape of his neck tingle and, still twenty meters shy of the stone pile, he dove to his left. His instincts were good—honed by hundreds of fights and battles—but they weren’t perfect. He reacted just a little too soon, and when he hit the rock, he heard the snaps of rapidly-fired, suppressed rounds. Most missed, but two slammed into his back, up high, behind his right shoulder.

They were small-caliber rounds, and silenced as they were, they didn’t exactly erupt into his body, fragment and tear apart his organs. Instead, one lodged deep into the meat of his muscle, and one dug a furrow into his scapula. Hector grunted in pain, but the fire spurred him on, and he convulsively lurched to his feet and ran. He was getting ready to jump again, sure he had to dodge, but then the crack of a high-powered round split the night.

Two more cracks echoed off the plasteel awning, and Hector heard a body hit the gravel behind him. He didn’t know how many of the mercs were down, but he ran like one was about to jump on his back. When he reached the rock pile, he dove, sliding on the gravel, thankful for his synth-leather jacket, which was undoubtedly ruined. He’d felt something in the shotgun crack when he hit the ground, so he tossed it aside, unwilling to risk firing it again.

Another explosive retort echoed off the stony ground, but then Hector heard heavy footsteps sprinting toward Britt’s position while dozens of silenced clicks and the snapping, echoing zwings of ricochets told him the story: she might have taken one of the mercs out, but they were onto her. One merc was running toward her while another gave him cover-fire.

An inexperienced soldier might have hung there behind the shelter of the rock pile, cautiously peering out to get a better picture of the scene. Hector knew the time for caution was past; he was reasonably confident that the mercs were down to two men—the one charging Britt’s foxhole, and the one shooting. They thought Hector was out of the picture—wounded and hiding. It was the perfect time to strike, so he let the pain ride through him, refusing to let his body react to it, and then he sprinted toward the sound of the suppressed rifle clicks.

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He’d mentally judged it at only about ten meters, and he wasn’t wrong. A dark shadow lay prone on the gravel, rifle extended, firing a steady stream of rounds to keep Britt down. When he saw Hector coming, he tried to react by bringing his gun around, but it was too late; even wounded, Hector could sprint ten meters pretty damn fast. As the barrel swung toward him, he kicked it, and the weapon clattered, sliding over the gravel. Meanwhile, the merc was up, springing into a crouch in a move that would have made a feline jealous.

Hector had his attention; he wasn’t shooting at Britt, so he slowed down, moving a bit more cautiously, especially when he saw the glint of starlight reflecting on an exposed blade. When did you draw that, you tricky son of a bitch?

“Lay down,” the merc hissed, his voice distorted and strange as it came through his black-mesh facemask. Hector circled, center of gravity low, peering into those glowing red eyes. “Only need one of you. Last offer. Lay down.”

When Hector didn’t move, the shadowy merc lunged into a flurry of strikes and slashes, and Hector was hard pressed to block them. He didn’t play any cards; he let his aura rest. He was learning about his foe, and what he learned was that he was damn fast, and his blade was sharp. When they parted, his jacket had picked up a few fresh cuts, and he felt warm blood trickling down his right forearm toward his hand. The merc was too fast for him.

Hector didn’t think he could win in a straight-up fight, even if he had a knife, but he knew it would be stupid to use his aura so soon. He didn’t know the merc’s patterns. He didn’t know if he was holding something back. When fighting someone with superior speed, you had to lure them into a trap, and Hector had to sniff out his weaknesses first. All that said, he continued to circle, continued to let the knife-wielding mercenary come at him, and continued to rack up shallow cuts and even a stab wound to his right shoulder.

Of course, the bullet wounds he’d suffered didn’t help. His body was young and resilient, though, and none of the bullets had gone anywhere critical. His injured muscles screamed with the exertion, but they responded; wounds stretched and bled, but adrenaline and discipline could overcome a lot.

By the time he’d fended off the merc for the fourth time, both of them were breathing raggedly, but the merc knew he was winning. He knew that he’d wear Hector down, given time. Meanwhile, Hector had to worry about Britt. Could she handle the other merc? Why hadn’t she fired again? When the shadowy mercenary came at him again, leading with an overhead, downward slice of his knife, Hector made his move.

He stepped into the cut, blocking the downward slash with his left forearm. When he drove his right fist forward, the merc went to block it, just as he had several times before, but this time Hector burned some aura. He sent three into a Strength Boost, and at the same time he summoned his Aura Blade. His body erupted with crimson fire, his muscles expanded as he inhaled sharply, and his mind lit up with the rush of the aura flow.

The merc’s eyes lost their crimson luster as everything tinted red in response to Hector’s aura. He tried to block Hector’s fist, only to find a viciously sharp blade in the way. Hector drove the shining, crimson weapon forward, severing the merc’s fingers, then buried the blade to his knuckles in his stomach. Using boosted muscles, he twisted the blade and hacked it to the side, opening the man’s torso, effectively gutting him as the blade ripped free of his armor.

The merc gasped and cried out, stumbling back as gore poured from his wide-open midriff. Hector spun, focusing on Britt’s foxhole. He relaxed and let himself breathe when he saw her standing there, rifle pointing at a downed merc. Had she shot him? He supposed it was possible he’d missed the sound of her gun; the rush of aura had been intense—it felt like he’d been standing in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Turning back to the shadow merc, he saw him collapse and lie still. His active camouflage flickered with sparks as the damage Hector had done ruined the static field. Footsteps crunching on gravel told him Britt was approaching, so Hector turned to face her. “They’re all done?” he asked.

“Um, yeah. You killed one with the shotgun, I shot one by the awning.” She pointed to Hector’s victim. “This one, and the one by my foxhole. I only clocked those four.”

“Did you see the drone?”

She nodded, pointing toward the gate. “It’s hovering over the gate. I think the jammer messed it up and these guys aren’t alive to tell it what to do.”